Cubicle Twelve


Speeches in a shower, sentences for no-one. Legs that carry me from breakfast nook to balcony cradling a mug of warmth and promise. Eyes that watch as a city wakes, steam literally billowing from the tops of buildings like in old films selling dystopia. A future, here, today. It is two-thousand-and-thirteen, six years and some months away from the Los Angeles of Blade Runner. Time remains mechanical in its passage, and all I have is who I am. Read the rest of this entry »